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A Tragedy in Whiskers 

—By— 

Caesar Davis.^/w^^-. 
Author of “The Fine Art op Punning.” 


u 


Illustrated by 

Fred H. Shantz 


0 


Apex Book Co. 
1917. 



o o 

Copyright, 1917 by the 
Apex Book Company. 
Colorado Springs, Colo. 
Published December, 1917. 

o o 



©CI,A481448 

JAN 17 ISIS 


I'U- / 




TO DAD, 

The memory of whose marvelous yarm 
responsible for the present tale, 
this slight tribute is dedicated. 


( 


•"A Tragedy in Whiskers 



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A Tragedv in Whiskers 

1 . 

A stray fly, volplaning to the fea- 
tures that constituted Jeffry Furlong’s 
face, might easily have imagined itself 
in an African jungle. A nose that 
thrust itself through the black tangle 
like the summit of Mount Atlas, two 
lake-like eyes bordering upon a bleak 
Sahara of forehead and a mouth that 
rumbled at times like a wood-fringed 
crater, supplied the insect traveler with 
remarkable evidence for such belief. A 
safety razor in that extensive verdure 
would have resembled a cross-cut saw 
in a logging camp or a lawn mower in 
Kansas. All of which is merely to em- 
phasize the fact that Furlong had wil- 
fully concealed his identity behind a 
mask of black beard and by this act had 
leased himself to the gods. 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

Furlong had spent the forenoon 
swimming and his shaggy locks drip- 
ped with moisture like a thatched roof 
after a thaw. The principal deficien- 
cies in his wardrobe were a coat and 
hat, although numerous rents in his 
outer garments proclaimed that visits 
to the tailor were as frequent with him 
as social calls between King George and 
the Kaiser. 

In this precarious state, tragedy 
had come upon him. During the brief 
interval between his trip to the lake 
and his return he had become as home- 
less as an Esquimau in Java. His cabin 
under the persuasive infiuence of fire 
had changed to a mass of smoking 
ruins and with it had gone also his 
credentials and his money. 

Furlong gazed Apprehensively at 
the darkening sky. The wind whis- 
pered suggestively through the thick 

— Page Ten 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
network of trees that arched above 
him. A low roll of thunder fell as 
pleasantly upon his ears as the voice of 
babyhood — at one A. M. Five miles 
from a railroad, penniless, hungry, and 
worst of all, in danger of an unneeded 
shower bath — these were the elements 
of tragedy. 

“By golly, yer house burned down, 
didn’t it?” asked a voice behind him. 
Furlong whirled around in amazement 
to confront a dilapidated specimen of 
the world’s best argument for woman’s 
suffrage. 

For a moment he surveyed the 
stranger with a cold glance of disap- 
proval and then replied: — 

“Oh, no. Not at all. It didn’t burn 
down; it burned up.” 

To those sensitive souls to whom 
any form of punning is as disturbing 
as cayenne pepper to a man of scents. 

Page Eleven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
this rebuff would have been sufficient. 
But Jelico Saunders was not of these. 

“Then you must be broke?” persist- 
ed Jelico. 

“By no means, good friend,” replied 
Furlong. “You labor under a misap- 
prehension. If I had a balloon, I could 
immediately raise some money, if I had 
some money.” 

For a moment the tramp considered 
this statement. Then a thought struck 
him. 

“Aw, come on,” he said. “You may 
be loco, pard; but we have need of that 
foliage of yours. You know Clipper- 
ville?” 

“I was born there.” 

“And the razor factory that has 
made Clipperville famous?” 

“I own it,” replied Furlong truthful- 
ly. 


— Page Twelve 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“Oh, of course you do,” said Jelico 
soothingly, “Of course you do. The 
owner dropped out o’ sight six months 
ago.” 

“Yes, it has been six months. You 
are right. Six months ago I was 
scorned, sir, scorned by a woman; yes, 
by a beautiful woman, and I have reg- 
istered a vow in heaven never to shave 
again until that time when the canker 
has been rooted from my heart.” 

A great drop of rain, as if a tear 
from Jove, struck the ridge of Fur- 
long’s nose and disappeared like a 
mountain stream in the network of 
shrubbery above his mouth. The ora- 
tory ceased with the abruptness of a 
pacifist’s speech in Germany and both 
men cast anxious glances at the dark- 
ening sky. 

“I don’t know what yer game is, 
pard,” said Jelico; “but you can’t stay 

Page Thirteen — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
here and there’s bunches of good ol’ 
U. S. lettuce to be picked in Clipperville 
now. A strike’s been called in the ra- 
zor factory and there’s need of such as 
us before the soldier boys come in t’ 
spoil the game. In tw^ hours a freight 
stops at the siding over the hill; in 
three hours we’ll be at home. That 
map of yours will match the geography 
like a wooden leg fits a Pole. Is it 
thumbs up, pard?” 

The sharp hiss of a burning stick as 
a drop of rain fell upon it, decided Fur- 
long. Realizing that a penniless man 
of his appearance is apt to be as friend- 
less as a pork chop on a vegetarian pic- 
nic, Furlong decided to make a hasty 
connection with private resources in 
Clipperville. Had this decision failed, 
his personal interest as the owner, de- 
spite appearances, of the Furlong Ra- 
zor Factory would have argued loudly 
for a change of scene. 


— Page Fourteen 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

Late that afternoon a freight train 
clattered over the switches in the yards 
of Clipperville and came to a jerky 
stop. A pair of legs were pushed cau- 
tiously from the side door of a hobo 
“Pullman” and produced oratory on the 
outside. “Well, well, if it isn’t Jelico, 
again. A nice bath and a shave awaits 
you at the old homestead, my boy, even 
if you did leave in a hurry last time.” 
Jelico had met a friend. 

Furlong crouched fearfully in the 
dark shadows of the car. A red head 
and a blue helmet were thrust through 
the doorway, but the piercing eyes of 
the detective were baffled. 

“Just an old hair mattress is all I 
find,” said he. 

When the train slowed down for a 
switch a half mile out of town, Furlong 
ventured once more to seek his free- 
dom and this time swung unnoticed to 
the hard cinders of the right of way. 

Page Fifteen — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

His journey so far had taken time 
and the shadows were commencing to 
straggle their grotesque and gigantic 
lengths to the east. The rain had 
ceased and that ineffable calm of late 
afternoon — city residents please omit — 
had fallen upon Clipperville when Fur- 
long, footsore and weary, arrived in his 
native city and thought with sorrow 
and apprehension of the future. 

In civilization that hobby which he 
had cherished as a hermit might be- 
come a menace to his safety. He whom 
the average congressman would look 
upon with envy must slink down de- 
serted alleys until the welcome artists 
of the tonsorial parlors should cut away 
the weeping willows upon his features 
and destroy the disguise that barred 
him from friends and fireside. 

With a sigh of satisfaction Furlong 
slipped through the entrance of the 

—Page Sixteen 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
Golden Shears Barber Shop and settled 
himself comfortably in the cushions of 
the chair beside the window. 

“Shave,” said he. 

It is a pleasure for us to relate that 
the artist of the blade was a man of 
strong constitution, because it is not a 
pleasant task for an author to hang 
crape upon the door of any man’s place 
of business. It must be admitted, how- 
ever, that the young man was startled 
and Fido, the shop dog, made a dive for 
something on the floor as the scissors 
slipped in the hands of a fellow barber 
at the next chair. 

“Say, what are you giving us?” 
asked the barber in the kindly patois of 
his kind. “We don’t do landscape gar- 
dening here. This is a barber shop.” 

Furlong was piqued. The sudden 
ire of dignity offended swelled up in 
his breast and blossomed. 

Page Seventeen — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“I’m not hunting for sketches for a 
funny paper,” he said. “Bring out 
your lawn mower and start the har- 
vest.” 

The barber in the meantime had 
been scrutinizing the wardrobe of Fur- 
long and evidently found much to be de- 
sired. A task of this magnitude was 
not to be undertaken on credit. 

“Don’t get excited, stranger,” said 
he. “Let me see the color of your coin 
and we’ll let a little daylight on your 
face.” 

Furlong obligingly explored the 
depths of his trousers’ pocket and then 
glanced up at the menacing face of the 
barber with horror and surprise. He 
remembered that the burning cabin 
had left him in a financial condition 
not more hopeful than that of Father 
Adam. 

The barber sensed the difficulty and 

— Page Eighteen 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
with a crook of his finger summoned a 
dark figure from the vicinity of the 
shoe-shining parlor. 

“But I’m Jeffry Furlong,” shouted 
the enraged manufacturer recognizing 
the cruel hand of fate. “Tomorrow I’ll 
pay you five dollars for the shave.” 

The barber grinned. 

“Ha ! That’s a good one; Jeify Fur- 
long with an acre of underbrush like 
that? Charlie, the job’s yours.” 

“Yas, suh,” said Charlie exhibiting 
a set of teeth that looked like marble 
tombstones against a midnight sky. 




Page Nineteen — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 


IL 

For a few moments Furlong studied 
astronomy, enjoying the sensation of 
investigating a solar system all his 
own. Then he sat up. A crowd of 
curious spectators had gathered about 
to express opinions, so Furlong, fear- 
ing the results of such publicity, limped 
off down the street. 

One idea had seized upon him. His 
lost identity must be restored. He 
jumped like a startled deer when a pas- 
ser-by, indicating a newsboy on the cor- 
ner, commented upon “the little shav- 
er.” He leaned for a moment over the 
pickets of a fence and contemplated a 
man who was mowing a lawn. With 
eyes that broke the tenth command- 
ment he gazed upon the grass that 
poured in a verdant shower from be- 
hind the busy knives of the mower. A 

— Page Twenty 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
wisp of thin wood that fluttered down 
from a scaffolding where several car- 
penters were busy, showed that even 
the planes were shaving. 

A few squares down the street new 
inspiration came to him in the gilt let- 
ters of the sign across the way: — “Joe 
Cuttemup, the Tailor.” Deliverance 
was at hand. 

Furlong glanced furtively through 
the v/indows of the shop. For the mo- 
ment it was empty. A large pair of 
shears sprawled their awkward length 
across the table. To possess those 
matchless blades for half an hour be- 
came an obsession. He had never prac- 
ticed the art of burglary before and felt 
like a novice pushing the pedals of his 
new car for the first time. But at last 
desire overcame his fear, so rushing 
boldly into the shop, he clutched the 
coveted objects upon the table. 

Page Twenty-one — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

Then fate again grinned and pushed 
the button for the porter. A door in 
the rear swung back and a man and a 
loud shout emerged simultaneously 
through the opening. There was no 
time for thought, so Furlong, with the 
laudable intention of obeying nature’s 
first law, dropped the coveted shears 
and sped like a hunted thing down the 
street. 

Then the full horror of the situa- 
tion burst upon him. He was marooned 
— marooned in a sea of whiskers — cut 
off from association with his friends by 
a sea as pitiless as that which washed 
the sands of Crusoe’s island. 

However, one gleam of hope re- 
mained. He could at least seek the 
dwelling he had once called home and 
there, if Nora, the housekeeper, was 
still faithful to her duty, he might at 
last escape from the disguise that, like 

— Page Twenty-two 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
a Sargasso sea, held his derelict desti- 
ny in its grisly tangle. 

The shadows of the afternoon had 
reached their maximum length and 
were darkening into dusk when Fur- 
long, creeping into the yard about his 
home, cautiously mounted the front 
steps and tried the door. It was locked. 

“Confound Nora’s idea of bur- 
glars,” growled Furlong crawling over 
the porch railing. “You’d think this 
house was the four hundred; it’s so 
hard to get into.” 

With these mutterings, the razor- 
maker, keeping to the shadows, stole 
softly around the side of the house and 
tried the back-door. It opened easily 
and Furlong crept into the darkness of 
the kitchen. The lights had not yet 
been turned on — thanks to the thrift 
of Nora — so Furlong paused for a mo- 
ment in the shadow of the kitchen 
range. 

Page Twenty-three — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

He was not left long in doubt. A 
wraith of fury suddenly materialized 
from the doorway opposite and a 
broom descended with crushing vio- 
lence upon Furlong’s head. Only the 
thick mattress that protected his dome 
of thought prevented a tragedy that 
would have ended our tale with an obit- 
uary and a tombstone. 

“Take that, ye murtherin’ spal- 
peen,” cried the valiant Nora wielding 
her protective besom with an energy 
that made explanation futile. “Ye will 
come a sneakin’ into a person’s house 
without knockin’, will ye? I’ll learn 
the likes of ye to quit yer prowlin’ in 
the daytime, ye blitherin’ anarchist. 
Ye’ll be frightenin’ women and child- 
er, will ye? Take that, an’ that, an’ 
that.” 

These various “thats” descended 
with the precision and force of pile- 

— Page Twenty-four 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
driver blows upon the body of the un- 
happy Furlong and after an exceeding- 
ly brief attempt to establish a conver- 
sation, the razor-maker with a cry of 
anguish turned and fled. His last re- 
fuge had disappeared like a sack of 
sugar in the rain. 

A few moments later, while Fur- 
long was taking stock of his various 
bruises, his eye was attracted by a 
glaring poster on a building across the 
street. Although badly shaken by the 
enormity of the disaster that had come 
upon him, Furlong limped across the 
street and like a deer, fascinated to its 
destruction by the decoy fires of the 
hunter, feasted his eyes upon the dead- 
ly poster. 

“$500 REWARD! 

IVAN MIKHAILOVITCH, escaped 
Anarchist, is wanted for the crimes of 
murder, arson, and kidnapping. Five 

Page Twenty-five — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
hundred dollars reward will be paid for 
his apprehension. When last seen Mik- 
hailovitch was clothed in a ragged 
black suit and wore a heavy growth of 
whiskers. He is 30 years old, possess- 
es an excellent education, and speaks 
English perfectly. 

“Wire information to Sheriff J. J. 
Johnson.” 

A cold chill clutched at the heart of 
Furlong. He glanced fearfully around 
him and then stood rigid with despair. 
Two blocks down the street appeared a 
galloping team which he recognized on- 
ly too well. He had been the first al- 
derman on the town council to insist 
that Clipperville’s dignity demanded 
the purchase of a real metropoli- 
tan police patrol. It was now evident 
that he, the much kicked football on 
Fate’s gridiron, was to become the vic- 
tim of a boomerang. 


— Page Twenty-six 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

Furlong, galvanized to action by the 
staccato clang of the approaching bell, 
glanced wildly about. A local guard- 
ian of the law, leaning against a lamp- 
post on the next corner, gazed thought- 
fully at a cloud and whirled his night 
stick in a suggestive manner. Fur- 
long had feelings quite similar to those 
of an apple beside a cider press or the 
dreams of a man asleep in a folding 
bed. 

Then inspiration came upon him. 
The house across the street was the 
very one from whose door he had 
emerged six months before with 
thoughts of poison and a cool, deep- 
flowing current. How well he remem- 
bered the scorn that had poured from 
the lovely lips of the adorable Janet 
when she had accused him of perfidy 
which he had neither committed nor 
understood. The tears that she had 
shed at the end of the denunciation had 

Page Twenty-seven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
fallen like a gentle shower upon a 
scorched landscape and remained the 
only soothing memory of that unpleas- 
ant occasion. 

Two overpowering desires prompt- 
ed Furlong’s next actions. He longed 
for escape with the longing of a botany 
professor for a rare beetle and desired 
with the desire of a hypochondriac for 
a new symptom, to feast his eyes once 
more upon the imipossible object of his 
adoration. Time, like a tailor at his 
trade, was pressing, so Furlong, with- 
out further ado, rushed into the yard 
surrounding the home of the fair Jan- 
et, mounted the steps and opened the 
door. 

“Oh, you have come at last,” said a 
silvery voice and Furlong’s heart, like 
a novice at music, skipped a beat or 
two. 

“Janet,” cried Furlong noticing the 

— Page Twenty-eight 



''Htish/' commanded the girl in a 
whisper, ''Do you want everybody to 
hear V 





A Tragedy in Whiskers 
dim outlines of a white figure in the 
hall. 

“Hush,” commanded the girl in a 
whisper. “Do you want everybody to 
hear. I know your danger and will 
help you.” 

At this amazing information, Fur- 
long opened his mouth, but said no- 
thing. Either he was the victim of a 
queer coincidence or some sinister plot 
was commencing to close upon him. He 
recalled the startling resemblance be- 
tween Ivan, the anarchist, and himself. 

“Come with me,” said the girl and 
led him through deserted rooms to the 
back of the house. “If you value your 
safety you must obey instructions. 
The police are searching everywhere 
and only careful concealment can save 
you. Here; this paper contains the di- 
rections that you must follow.” 

With these mysterious words the 

Page Thirty-one — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 


girl thrust a paper into the hands of 
Furlong, opened the back door and in- 
dicated with a motion of her head that 
the interview was over. Furlong was 
too dazed by the strange adventure in- 
to which he had fallen to speak and in 
a moment found himself alone in the 
shadows of the porch contemplating a 
closed door. 




— ^Page Thirty-two 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 


III 

“Did somebody mention the myste- 
ries of a Chinese stew?” commented 
Furlong to himself, pulling reflectively 
at the unwelcome adornment on his 
chin. “Fd give half my chances for a 
shave to know just what tune Fm sup- 
posed to be playing in this band.” 

Furlong crept cautiously through 
the backyard to the alley and there, 
availing himself of the dim light which 
penetrated from an arc lamp on the 
corner, read with the perplexity of a 
Hottentot learning dominos, the fol- 
lowing note. 

“Your danger is pressing. If you 
would escape the coils that are tighten- 
ing about you, go at once to the desert- 
ed house between the railroad and the 
fair grounds and remain there until 

Page Thirty-three — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
summoned. All will yet be well. 

Janet” 

“I’d have better luck looking for a 
train in a time table than trying to ex- 
plain this,” mused Furlong examining 
the manuscript closer. “Well, if I want 
to satisfy my curiosity in the matter, 
I’ll have to find the house. Here goes 
for the rest of the adventure.” 

An hour later Furlong, having skil- 
fully avoided the wide-spread net of the 
law, crept cautiously up to the deserted 
house and reconnoitered. The old man- 
sion stood revealed in the light of the 
rising moon like the ghost of a forgot- 
ten thought. A slight wind had arisen 
and rattled a broken board hanging 
from the eaves. The dismal sound 
seemed almost like the groan from an 
aching tooth. 

Furlong, unlike pancake batter, was 
not to be easily stirred, so having as- 

— Page Thirty-four 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
sured himself that all was well he ad- 
vanced boldly and tried the door. The 
lock had rusted away through disuse 
and made the entrance into the dwell- 
ing a matter of small difficulty. 

“This is not the pleasantest place in 
the world,” muttered Furlong to him- 
self as he paused to listen. “Thought 
I heard something. Probably only a 
rat. I say, if this darkness were only 
light, it would make the sun look like 
a Christmas candle in a calcium spot.” 

Meditating thus, Furlong continued 
his groping exploration of the inter- 
ior and finally stumbled over an article 
of furniture that resembled a couch. 

“King Arthur couldn’t have spent 
a more thrilling time in Chicago on a 
New Year’s eve than this little razor 
king’s had today,” said Furlong stretch- 
ing himself luxuriously upon the 

Page Thirty-five — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
couch, “so here’s to a quiet snooze. I 
guess the day’s work is over for me.” 

The razor-maker had apparently 
come to a cul-de-sac in a long and 
crooked road and other cares could be 
postponed till the morrow. In a few 
moments a strange, harsh, long-drawn- 
out sound mingled with the soughing 
of the wind about the eaves. Furlong 
snored and the wisps of beard swayed 
like reeds in a gale as his breath moved 
among them in soothing rhythm. 

It must have been close upon twelve 
o’clock when Furlong awoke. He was 
conscious of a choking feeling in his 
throat and his breath seemed somehow 
to be struggling with a thick and op- 
pressive air. He became wide awake 
at once, aroused himself, and sniffed. 
His first impressions could no longer 
be denied. The house was full of 
smoke. 


— Page Thirty-six 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

Suddenly a shrill cry arose on the 
startled air. 

“Fire! Fire!” 

Furlong now realized that fate had 
dealt another card in the perplexing 
game in which he seemed to be the jack- 
pot. A sudden feeling, prompted per- 
haps by a sixth sense, impressed Fur- 
long that all was not well. The sud- 
den cry following so quickly upon his 
discovery of the smoke suggested some 
subtle connection between them. The 
odd coincidences that had been dogging 
his heels made him wary and he deter- 
mined to act with caution. 

“This smoke doesn’t seem to be too 
thick,” he muttered getting to his feet. 
“I’ll just sneak up stairs and if worse 
comes to worst I won’t need a para- 
chute to come down over the porch.” 

Heedless of the danger that might 
have made a man of tallow pause. Fur- 

Page Thirty-seven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
long briskly climbed the creaking stairs 
of the old house and sought a front 
room where he might have a good view 
of all that should take place. The moon 
had by this time climbed to a dizzy 
height and flooded the landscape with 
mellow radiance. 

He did not have long to wait. Smoke 
was rolling forth in heavy clouds from 
somewhere in the rear of the dwelling 
and in the distance an alarm-bell com- 
menced to clang its warning. Sudden- 
ly he heard a heavy jar as if a door be- 
low him had been slammed shut and the 
next moment a strange figure emerged 
into the moonlight from the shadows 
of the porch. Furlong grasped the 
ledge of the window and breathed hard. 
His thoughts were not far distant from 
those of a monkey when he looks into 
a mirror for the first time. The stran- 
ger who stood like a trapped wolf in 
the moonlight, may in the days of his 

— Page Thirty-eight 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
childhood have had features different 
from those of Furlong, but these slight 
differences were now hidden by that 
intensive verdure which makes all 
landscapes seem as one. 

“The anarchist,” said Furlong soft- 
ly. “A certain five hundred dollars 
will change hands tomorrow. Speak- 
ing of botany, this is certainly a first 
rate plant.” 

Furlong in these deductions showed 
a remarkable ability to reason, for 
scarcely had he exchanged these views 
with himself when two men emerged 
from the shadows and advanced upon 
their dismayed and unhappy victim. 

“Well, well; if here isn’t old Ivan 
again,” said one of the men cheerfully. 
His companion grunted an unintelligi- 
ble reply and, closing in rapidly upon 
the poor anarchist, clamped a couple of 
irons upon his wrists. 

Page Thirty-nine — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

The struggle was brief. A loud cry 
of rage, a little dust, and silence set- 
tled once more upon the world. 

“Exit Ivan,” said Furlong after his 
surprise had somewhat abated at this 
unusual occurrence. “The fire also 
seems to be going out. Ah, there comes 
the chemical wagon, so perhaps I’d bet- 
ter leave too.” 

Furlong no longer possessed a de- 
sire to explore into the secrets of the 
deserted house and had even a less in- 
clination to be discovered in its unwel- 
come vicinity. Acting upon the im- 
pulse of the moment, he made his way 
hastily through the deserted rooms to 
the rear of the dwelling and swung to 
the earth upon a ladder of vines which 
climbed over the back porch in a tan- 
gle second only to that upon his face. 

A small wooded tract stretched for 
some distance back of the house and 

— Page Forty 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
there, sheltered from the radiance of 
the moon and watchful eyes, Furlong 
once more resumed his rest and nasal 
music. 

When Furlong awoke he became 
immediately aware of voices and, in 
that dim consciousness of his waking 
brain, he sensed that in some man- 
ner he was the object of the conversa- 
tion. 

“He’s the same old Pete with the 
same old asparagus bed upon his phiz,” 
said a gruff voice. “The boss’ll be as 
pleased as a man with a cured boil when 
he learns that Pete didn’t take time to 
shave.” 

“And ain’t he dressed in style,” 
commented a second and even huskier 
voice. “Won’t Pete make the frothin’ 
maniac when we clamp his little brace- 
lets on again.” 

Furlong, amazed at the strangeness 

Page Forty-one — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
of this conversation, opened his eyes 
and sat up. 

“Grab him, Bill; he’s a reg’lar devil 
on a Sunday School picnic,” yelled the 
first speaker advancing in a none too 
gentle manner. “Lively now with them, 
shackles.” 

Bill did not appear heedless of the 
warning and in a moment Furlong saw 
with unspeakable dismay that he was 
trussed up with irons that would have 
baffled a handcuff king. 

“What is the idea? What do you 
think you are doing? This joke has 
just about gone the limit,” said Fur- 
long angrily, making an attempted 
blow at Bill which resulted only in 
throwing his own body to the ground. 

“Now ain’t he up to his old tricks 
again, Jim?” said Bill with a broad 
grin. “We’re sorry fer you, Pete, but 

— Page Forty-two 


A TRAGEDY IN WHISKERS 

yer contract with the boss ain’t fin- 
ished yet.” 

“Contract,” bellowed Furlong, now 
thoroughly aroused by his fall and the 
ignominy that had been placed upon 
him, “When I get these instruments 
off my hands I’ll m.ake you two con- 
tract so you’ll think you’re mercury 
at the north pole. Who do you think I 
am?” 

“There, there, Pete,” said Jim 
soothingly. “You’d better save yerself 
fer yer work. The boss’ll be so plumb 
tickled to see you back again that he’li 
pretty near raise our pay.” 

Furlong had always been averse to 
profanity in its various forms, but he 
now gave a wonderful exhibition of the 
symphony that the human voice can 
play on the organ of bad language. He 
did it with fervor and eloquence, ex- 
pressing shades of meaning that would 

Page Forty-three — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
have called speed from mule teams on 
the deserts of Arizona and admiration 
from Mark Twain. He included his 
two captors and their unknown chief 
in a denunciation that would have 
made a riveting machine sound like a 
dumb man’s speech in a congress of 
boiler makers. Jim and Bill heard the 
oration to its end with unfeigned ad- 
miration and sighed with regret when 
he touched off the set piece with a flare 
of lurid language that rivaled the 
Northern lights. 

“Pete orter take up religion,” said 
Jim after a short pause. “If he’d turn 
that sixteen incher loose against the 
devil, they’d soon be leasing some well 
known tropics to an ice company.” 

“He’s sure added to his vocabula- 
ry,” admitted Bill with a grin of appre- 
ciation. “But we’d better jog along if 
we want to get home fer breakfast.” 

— Page Forty-four 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

There was no hope for it. Furlong 
had emptied the vials of his wrath and 
had been met with grins. When he 
protested that he was the famous own- 
er of the Furlong Razor Factory his 
captors had commented facetiously up- 
on his choice of boycotts and roared 
with laughter. It was evident that his 
amazing disguise had once more direct- 
ed him into a case of mistaken identity. 

While Furlong was endeavoring to 
impress the vileness of their mistake 
upon his captors, the three had set off 
cross-lots towards the town and in a 
short time came in sight of a number 
of large tents. Furlong with growing 
fear read a huge sign that arched the 
road. 

“Main Entrance to Morton’s Side 
Shows.” 

A short distance further on his hor- 
rified eyes read the blatant canvas 

Page Forty-five — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
that shrieked his own disgrace to the 
gaping world. 

“Peter Grumbo, the Wild Man. 
Caught by a Steel Trap in the Jungles 
of Borneo. He Eats Raw Meat” 




- Page Forty-six 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 


IV 

Behind the steel bars of his cage 
Furlong clanked his iron chains and 
raged. A mad fury had seized upon 
him when his captors used his sun- 
tanned skin for a canvass upon which 
to spread wild and grotesque paintings. 
With a fiery oratory that seemed to 
turn his mouth into a verbal volcano, 
Furlong pointed out that the lack of 
frescoing upon his body argued with 
golden eloquence the case of mistaken 
identity. 

“That ain’t no alibi, Pete,” said 
Jim, examining over the tip of his ver- 
milion-tinted brush the monstrosity on 
Furlong’s breast. “These pictures 
don’t last like tattoo when it comes to 
moisture and that louse jungle looks 
like it had been out in the rain. Bet- 
ter cool off them words, Pete, or you’ll 
start a forest fire.” 

Page Forty-seven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

When Furlong was first presented 
to the gaping crowds as the escaped 
wild man he had made a little speech in 
which he set forth his identity with the 
razor king. The utter ludicrousness 
of the declaration had set the mob 
roaring with laughter and when Fur- 
long finally burst into a torrent of 
wrath and attempted to break the steel 
bars of his cage, he became the center 
of an attraction that aroused the jeal- 
ousy of the other freaks. Furlong had 
succeeded in his new career. Greater 
satisfaction could not have been given 
had he chewed up bits of soap and ex- 
uded foam from between his shaggy 
chops. 

One day, a short time after Furlong 
had assumed his duties in the new pro- 
fession, the razor-maker noticed a 
small, round-faced individual regard- 
ing him with meditative gaze. After a 
long and careful scrutiny from several 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
angles the little man opened the con- 
versation. 

“Been here long, Mr. Grumbo?” 

“Mr. Grumbo” sensed with frenzied 
cunning that here perchance was op- 
portunity. With the desperation of a 
potato bug in a poison spray, Furlong 
poured forth the pitiful tale of which 
he was the luckless hero. He painted 
in lurid language the horrors of his in- 
carceration and the proud estate from 
which he had so strangely fallen. Like 
a gentle shower upon a cabbage patch, 
it produced fruit. 

“Just a moment, Mr. Grumbo,” said 
the stranger interrupting the flow of 
language. “Before we can get down 
to business, you must imitate me.” 

The little man grasped his hair firm- 
ly in both hands and Furlong, wonder- 
ing, did the same. 

Page Forty-nine — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“Now; one, two, three, pull,” said 
the stranger. 

Furlong obeyed with an effort that 
almost lifted him off his feet and the 
stranger smiled with satisfaction. 

“It’s real, all right,” he said pleas- 
antly. “Now, Mr. Grumbo, if I bail 
you out of your present occupation, 
will you sign a contract to remain in 
my employ for three months; wages 
five dollars per day; work nothing?” 

“Will a politician talk?” cried Fur- 
long with savage joy. “I’d sign a life 
contract selling ice cream cones to Es- 
quimaux for just five minutes of liber- 
ty in this tent.” 

“Softly, Mr. Grumbo,” said the 
stranger. “I don’t calculate to serve 
no summons at a coroner’s inquest so 
we’ll have to call the deal off. Sorry, 
Mr. Grumbo, for somehow there’s an 

— Page Fifty 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
appeal to me in the tangle of your 
hair.” 

Furlong saw that his revenge must 
be postponed if he desired liberty from 
this unexpected source and after a 
short monologue in which he vowed ar- 
dently the indefinite postponement of 
his day of reckoning, the stranger was 
once more persuaded to resume negoti- 
ations. 

The upshot of the whole matter was 
that Furlong was given a grudging 
liberty by the show in which he had 
proved such an attraction and forth- 
with entered the employ of the mysteri- 
ous Mr. Jakeson. 

A few days later a handsome car 
drove through the main streets of the 
small town of Centerfield and drew up 
grandly in front of the post office. In 
place of the tonneau there had been 
fitted up a speaker’s stand proudly 

Page Fifty-one — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
decked with American flags and a 
small tank-like structure that might 
have been the curtain of a bathtub 
shower. One man sat in the driver’s 
seat; another had mounted the ros- 
trum. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” commenc- 
ed the orator clearing his throat and 
including in this introduction a half 
dozen loafers and a small colored girl 
on the side walk. “It is my great 
pleasure this evening to present for 
your entertainment my esteemed 
friend and comrade, the world famous 
cornet soloist. Prof. Terry Trumpet. 
He has set more crowned feet to danc- 
ing than any other tooter on this 
broad earth.” 

The musician wno had arisen and 
taken his position on the stand at this 
introduction smiled bashfully, placed a 
golden instrument to his lips and, in the 

— Page Fifty-two 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
manner of ancient heralds, wound 
blithely forth a volume of music that 
awoke the echoes. In a few moments 
he reaped his reward. People com- 
menced to collect as if by magic. 
Scarcely had the last note died into 
silence when a crowd that would have 
aroused jealousy in an accident victim, 
presented a sea of upturned and expec- 
tant faces. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” commenc- 
ed the orator as soon as the music 
ceased. “It becomes my great pleasure 
this evening in the cause of suffering 
humanity to introduce myself. Profes- 
sor Jake J. Jakeson of Troy, New York 
and the marvelous remedy which boun- 
teous nature has yielded to my years of 
toil. This is no cure-all, ladies and 
gentlemen, that I bring to you; this is a 
specific for the one most tender and 
painful of all ills. No longer need the 
shiny thought-domes of our most hon- 

Page Fifty-three — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
ored citizens be the target for the jests 
of their friends and the peanuts of the 
small boy. The contents of this bottle, 
ladies and gentlemen, will grow hair on 
an egg, fur on a door handle, and a hir- 
sute jungle on a senatorial dome. 

“Would you believe it, my friends, 
when I had finished my experiments 
with some of the concentrated extract, 
I spilled a bottle upon the leather cen- 
ter piece on the table and spent the 
next morning explaining to my wife 
where I had purchased the bear-skin 
rug.” 

The professor paused for breath 
and noticed with gratification the skep- 
tical grins sprinkled among his audi- 
ence. 

“But that is not all, ladies and gen- 
tlemen. I do not vouch for the follow- 
ing story, although a friend of mine, 
whose veracity I have no reason to 

— Page Fifty-four 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
question, related the experience which 
he claims to have witnessed with his 
own eyes. He had bought a dog, — 
an Irish setter — of which he became 
very proud. One day while out hunt- 
ing he had the misfortune to mistake 
the dog’s tail for a rabbit and blazed 
away. A few moments later the setter, 
an exceptionally faithful and intelli- 
gent animal, hastened up with the tail 
in his mouth, having retrieved his own 
adornment. 

“But this is not the point. My 
friend was naturally grieved at the oc- 
currence, but with rare presence of 
mind pulled forth from his pocket a 
bottle of Jakeson’s Hair Tonic, applied 
a few drops to the pitiful stump where 
the tail had been accustomed to wave, 
and, behold! there appeared a brand 
new appendage handsomer than the 
one he had shot away.” 

This modern Ananias beamed with 

Page Fifty-five — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
professional pride upon the attentive 
crowd. 

“But that, amazing as it may seem, 
was eclipsed by the event that followed. 
My friend, surprised at the power of 
the tonic, tried a few drops upon the 
tail which the setter had retrieved and, 
believe it or not, a new dog hastily 
grew from the stump.” 

A gasp went up from the astonished 
audience, and a few commenced to cry, 
“Fake! Fake!” This was apparently 
what the professor had been awaiting 
and now his voice became more serious. 

“I am sorry to hear,” said he, “that 
a few among your number seem to 
doubt the words that I have spoken. If 
I have exaggerated it is because my 
heart and soul are in my work. I have 
witnessed the marvels that the tonic 
has accomplished and my deepest de- 
sire is to spread its beneficent power 

— Page Fifty-six 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
among mankind. I am willing here 
and now to put my words to the test. 

“I have in my hands a bottle of the 
concentrated tonic, identical with that 
with which my friend produced the 
marvel upon his dog. If any man 
among you whose head now resembles 
the hairless surface of a china saucer 
will kindly step forward, I will apply 
this magic lotion to his unshingled 
roof, and ask him to enter this cur- 
tained cabinet at my side for three 
minutes. At the end of that time, la- 
dies and gentlemen, I guarantee, or for- 
feit five hundred dollars on the spot, 
that he will step forth again with a har- 
vest of hay upon his barren pasture 
that would make a football player look 
like a tonsured monk.” 

While he had been firing this chal- 
lenge at the astonished audience, the 
professor had unearthed a pile of green 

Page Fifty-seven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
herbage from his coat pocket and had 
stacked it upon the rostrum. 

“Don’t hesitate, my friends,” he 
rambled on. “This is no fake or your 
worthy magistrate here in the front 
row would soon have me where I could 
speak no more. Step right up. What 
gentleman is willing to bet his two feet 
of face against half a thousand dollars 
and this little bottle of magic fluid?” 

For a few moments there ensued an 
awkward pause. The “hair-raising” 
statements of the tonic king had silenc- 
ed the last mutterings of the people. 
There was a ripple of excitement 
among the crowd. Business could 
wait. Here was a marvel. 

While the professor was berating 
the crowd for its lack of sportsman- 
ship, there arose a sudden sound of 
cheers and laughter. A champion for 
the people had appeared. 


— Page Fifty-eight 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“You can’t shove no such stuff as 
that over on me,” said the stranger 
forcing' himself through the amused 
throng. “This here sun-baked farm of 
mine has been irrigated by every kind 
of hair tonic made and there ain’t been 
a spear of grass show up yet. Lead me 
to it.” 

The newcomer was clothed in rai- 
ment that shouted loudly of the farm, 
but there were no wisps of hay in his 
hair for he had no hair to hold them. 
In his company the average church dea- 
con would have felt like a French poo- 
dle beside an oyster. Not a single hair 
appeared in the desert that extended 
from his neck up. A fly, landing in the 
middle of that amazing Sahara, would 
have walked for inches without encoun- 
tering the oasis of a single hair. The 
crowd, craning forward to view the 
wonder, winked at one another and 
prepared for sport. 

Page Fifty-nine — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“This is hardly fair,” said the pro- 
fessor evidently disturbed at the mag- 
nitude of his task. “My tonic some- 
times fails to work on billiard balls. 
However, we shall do our best.” 

Accepting the challenge with these 
words, the professor commenced to rub 
his lotion over the barren dome of the 
farmer and then, to complete his work, 
gently massaged the face of the stran- 
ger. 

“And now, my friend,” said he, sur- 
veying his victim anxiously, “If you 
should return home at once and go to 
bed, you would have to present letters 
of introduction to your family in the 
morning. However, as we can not 
wait that long for action, I must ask 
you to step into the cabinet where my 
assistant will perform a secret process 
that speeds up the action of the tonic. 
As the method is extraordinarily dan- 

— Page Sixty 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
gerous, I have never revealed it to the 
public. One slight error on the user’s 
part would turn his hair a vivid, unex- 
tinguishable green.” 

The farmer timidly entered the cab- 
inet and for the required three minutes 
the professor entertained the expectant 
people with fervid panegyrics of doubt- 
ful veracity. 

Finally the suspense reached the 
breaking point. 

“Bring out the jay,” “Let’s lamp the 
hairless wonder,” “Three minutes are 
up,” and various cries of a similar na- 
ture displayed the anxiety of the 
crowd. 

The professor called to his assis- 
tant; there was a muffled response and 
the next moment the curtain of the cab- 
inet was thrown aside. The crowd 
gasped with awe and admiration. The 

Page Sixty-one — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

farmer stood before them with a face 
and head that looked like a scene on the 
upper Amazon. 




— ^Page Sixty-two 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 


V. 

Not until a delegation of prominent 
citizens had made investigation would 
the amazed people believe that the hair 
was real. The farmer appeared to be as 
surprised as the rest and his bucolic in- 
tellect seemed unable to detach itself 
from the thought of Mandy’s joy when 
she should first look upon the fur-lined 
features of her spouse. 

Immediately a wild demand for the 
marvelous fluid ensued and while the 
professor was dispensing his wares in 
dollar packages to the hairless, the far- 
mer forced his way through the crowd 
and sauntered happily down the street. 

He had not gone far when a cry be- 
hind him attracted his attention. 

“Oh, Mr. Furlong, I am so anxious 
to see you.” 

Page Sixty-three — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

The farmer whirled around in sharp 
amazement and then stood as if 
stunned. 

“Janet,” he cried. 

“Oh, Jeffry, I’m so glad that I have 
found you,” said the young lady with 
joyful face. “I have the strangest con- 
fession to make. Do come right home 
with me. We’ve moved from Clipper- 
ville, you know.” 

Furlong did not know, but he kept 
his ignorance to himself and accepted 
without reluctance the invitation of the 
young lady. A few moments later 
they were seated in a comfortable par- 
lor. 

“I knew you at once, Jeffry,” said 
Janet joyfully, “for no one else could 
grow a beard like yours. That bald- 
headed farmer was a trick, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” admitted Furlong with a 
grin. “He went into the professor’s 

— Page Sixty-four 


A Teagedy in Whiskers 
cabinet and I came out. We both wore 
similar suits and, being the same 
height, didn’t have much trouble pull- 
ing the trick. The professor has 
planned such a nice little show that it’s 
really too bad to show up the scene 
shifters.” 

“I just knew it all the time,” con- 
tinued Janet, “and I was so happy to 
see your lovely whiskers again. I’ve 
got a terrible confession to make to 
you, Jeffry.” 

Jeffry expressed his surprise and 
anticipation. 

“You remember that night when I 
handed you a note telling you to go to 
the deserted house? Well, that was all 
the part of a horrible scheme which my 
uncle confessed to at his death a month 
ago.” 

“Ah,” said Furlong. 

Page Sixty-five — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“My uncle and his associates 
planned to get control of your razor 
factory, but to do so they had to find 
a way to send you out of the country 
far from this neighborhood,” continued 
Janet. “They hired a wicked hobo to 
burn your house in the woods and then 
made plans to have you mistaken for 
an anarchist and deported to Russia. 
This would give them sufficient time 
for their wretched scheme. They 
thought that you would come to our 
house to hide and knowing that I 
wouldn’t recognize you with your 
whiskers, made me promise to give you 
that note. You were to go to the de- 
serted house where officers had been 
stationed to smoke you out. The 
scheme failed somehow, however, for 
they captured the wrong man and you 
got away.” 

“Lucky Pete,” murmured the razor 
king. 


— Page Sixty-six 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 

“And now, Jeffry, I’m so sorry for 
what I said to you that night. I didn’t 
mean it, but my uncle said — 

We are unable to report at this time 
what the bad uncle had said for the 
words were suddenly smothered in a 
tangle of shaggy beard. 

Furlong for some reason prolonged 
his visit for several hours. Then he 
slowly arose and sought his hat. Janet 
accompanied him to the door. 

“Jeffry,” she said wistfully. “I 
wish you’d promise me one little thing 
before you go.” 

“One thing?” said Furlong with fine 
scorn. “Make it a hundred.” 

“But just one is all I want,” af- 
firmed Janet. “If you really don’t 
mind I wish you’d only have your 
whiskers trimmed a little bit. They’re 
so becoming and besides they’re all the 

Page Sixty-seven — 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
rage now, and besides, you know that 
horrid Miss Pollykins— well, she’s been 
bragging about that tiny, little mus- 
tache that her Tom has been trying to 
grow and I want to show her some real- 
ly, truly whiskers.” 

Furlong sighed and promised. The 
next moment — or several thereafter — 
the door slammed shut and the razor 
king sought the gate. His thoughts 
were in heaven and his feet in the 
clouds when he suddenly turned a cor- 
ner into a poorly lighted street and 
found himself surrounded by a threat- 
ening mob. 

“Grab him,” yelled a youthful voice 
and in a moment he was grabbed. 

“Where’s that razor?” asked a sec- 
ond voice. “We’ll teach old Fuzzy to 
try to spoil athletics in this college. 
Somebody hold his feet.” 

Furlong squirmed and tried to ex- 

— ^Page Sixty-eight 


A Tragedy in Whiskers 
postulate, but all in vain. The band of 
youths had set upon him with deadly 
purpose. In a short time the job was 
finished and with a final flourish the 
last wisp of beard fluttered to the side- 
walk. 

“Hully gee,” cried one of the boys in 
consternation. “WeVe made a mis- 
take. It isn’t old Fuzzy at all. We’d 
better play we’re snow and drift.” 

Furlong scrambled to his feet and 
gazed thoughtfully at the apparent re- 
mains of a hair mattress upon the side- 
walk. 

“I’m sorry for Janet’s sake,” said 
he. “But it’s nearly time I met my face 
again when you consider that I’ve 
averaged nearly one close shave an 
hour recently.” 

END OF THE TRAGEDY. 


Page Sixty-nine — 




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